


Eye for an Eye

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Enhances original, Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, First Age, Plot - Good pacing, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-03
Updated: 2003-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:04:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4357307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Moonlighter. After Maedhros’ rescue from Thangorodrim, his first good morning during recuperation turns sour. Fingon helps him cope, and later, vice versa. First person POV alternates from Maedhros to Fingon in each chapter. Warning: half cousin m/m eroticism – consensual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spring

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at HASA, which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the HASA collection profile.

Today began better than countless miserable days that had come and gone before it. And that, sorry but true, was good enough to bring tears to my eyes. Ah no… that was the sun, as I recall, shining directly into my face as I slept (or rather, woke). But I did not curse the dawn, for once – whether that was by force of my own will or because my fate is wickedly twisted, I cannot tell. Everything seems cruel and spiteful again, now… but not then, no.

I remember gazing unperturbed through this very window, curtains blown open by the wind. It was a merciful breeze, I decided, carrying with it the scent of growing things, of sweet life. I welcomed the caress of fresh air as I lied in this bed here, breathing deeply. And the sun… it touched me, yet I did not flinch. Instead I folded down these coverlets, and let the yellowish warmth lave my neck, chest, stomach. It felt…  _good_ , and nothing had felt good for a painfully long while. Yes, I think I even smiled. 

As I rested, I willed my mind to become aware of my body. It had been too much to bear in the past, and I would retreat to the solace of ignorance, closing my thoughts to what I wished not to know. (As if because I did not try to move my right hand, it was not severed; as if because I did not think about all that had been done to me and all I had done, I was any less impure – odd, that illogical reasoning had kept me sane.) Yet this morning, with my spirits higher, I decided to inhabit this body of mine for a time. My muscles still ached, but in a changed way: they ached to move and be used. My right arm I found utterly useless, snug in a sling where it remains even now, limp and insensate. But there was a familiar sensation in my loins, long missing and long missed: one of power. 

Next my senses were met with Caranthir’s near-shriek as he entered this room. He rushed to close the pane of glass and pull the drapes shut, as I might have demanded be done just yesterday, and he stammered out apologies about the storm last night and whichever imbecile had left me alone and other irrelevant things. For my part I stretched and sighed and stretched again. Seeing this Caranthir fell quiet – lately I had not been inclined to move if I could help it. But this morning was different: it was good, and even my marred body approved. 

When breakfast was brought, I ate hungrily of a creamy concoction of grain with apples and spiced honey. It tasted like I felt: warmer than emptiness, more wholesome than nothing. Not even fumbling with the spoon in my left hand spoiled that meal. Then I was ready for a bath. Caranthir said water would be brought soon and he would remain to cleanse me. But I wanted a  _bath_ , to soak weightlessly. Furthermore, I wanted to walk. 

I remember when I stood -shaky as a newborn at first- how unashamed I was, of my nudity, of my erection, of aught at all. If I was still bruised and broken, it was to a lesser extent than the days before – I was better if not hale. And if I was hard as a stag in heat, well, that was certainly better than the days before. 

My first journey to the closest bathing spring was more complex than I anticipated, physically arduous and mentally overwhelming. The sunlight, bold as coldness, inescapable as air; only the shadows were spared from its wrath, and I felt heavier as I walked under those punishing rays. But the Elves, they stared with awestruck faces, approached with greetings and well-wishes, smiled and waved and nodded my way. They were happy, glad to see me. Overwhelming? It was  _intoxicating_ , and I was besotted. 

I made no effort to conceal my pride when at last I came to that pool by my own strength. To my delight, many others were present, Maglor among them, and Fingon. Every face in the vicinity was turned to me, all joyous, all beloved, and all welcoming. With as much regality as I could muster, I shrugged off the robe, handing it to Caranthir at my side (who appeared not entirely flattered). As I descended into the water, my skin prickled deliciously against the sensation, fevered from the trek, chilled by the spring… yes, my hide came alive and sang with delight, and I was sated down to my bones. 

It was several minutes until I looked around me again at my bathing companions. There followed pleasant talk of casual things, yet trivial issues were replaced by those of a more consequential nature ere long. Much of the last decade was relayed to me for the first time in that hour. But the tidings were good, for the most part – best of all, I thought, was my rescue. By seeking for me without the counsel or assistance of any other, Fingon in turn did much work towards reuniting our houses, regrettably sundered as they should never have been. I love my father, but I desire no rift twixt the descendants of Finwe, whom I also love. Doomed to fall we may be, but whilst we stand it should be together. 

Eventually my company dispersed one after another to attend various duties, and I think it was then that I realized (or recalled) how different our existence here would be. This is not Valinor where things are Blessed and Undying, where the gods may hold our hands and soothe our hearts, hone our wisdom and assuage our fears. Here there is work to be done -perilous work under a harsh sun- and it cannot be delayed for anything, not even Maedhros returned beyond hope. No, here in this unforgiving place we are alone. 

In that way I returned here to my room, and finding that there were doubts and sorrows heavy in my heart, I sought to… ease myself. I wanted the morning back! I wanted to feel good again, or at least, to forget for a while. I think I have earned that indulgence. In fact, I might have gotten around to it this morning, save for Caranthir’s untimely visit. Ah, but that had left room for anticipation to build. And all those eyes on me, pale as diamonds in the noontide… yes, they had had an effect of their own. If I was pleased with myself upon waking, I was eager and preening by the time I reclined in that spring, watched and admired. Then alone in my room, thinking on it all; those curious Elves stealing glances of me hungrily; the heartfelt words and respectful bows… I reached for myself, thinking on the love of the faithful, and the promise of tomorrow. 

I reached for myself with an arm that would not move, and a hand that was not there. And I cursed me for a fool, a sorry and sad and forsaken fool, who had never in his entire life used his left hand… for that. And now I do not even want to. 

 *******  

It was one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen. O verily, he was marred - he will forevermore be marred, inside and out. But he was shameless and proud, beaming like a pearl under the noontide. And that look was in his eye, telling us that he knew: he knew we looked and he knew why and he relished it. My relief could not be measured as he came into that pool, submitting himself to our company, our questions and tidings (not all of them pleasant). 

I have always been charmed by bravery. They call me valiant, so perhaps it is fitting that courage in others should gain my esteem. Maedhros has always been brave, and we have always been friends, so perhaps there is fittingness about that as well. As he bared his body -a gaunt mockery of former glory, scarred with torture’s signature- I thought nothing was more courageous than that, thus nothing more admirable. Then he settled beside me, smiling that certain smile of his, and without heed for personal burdens he spoke and listened of woes past and present that paled in comparison to his own – and he even cared. 

After all others had gone, Maedhros rose to leave. Though if he thought I noticed not how his mood had gradually darkened, he was mistaken. Likewise, I think he did not notice that I followed him. Yet once he entered his room ahead of me, the closed door seemed forbidding, the building previously a library private and sacred –I felt as though I should not trespass, and paced outside instead. Valiance, however, won in the end.

“Maedhros.” Inside, I found him standing by the foot of his bed, gazing at the window, though not through it. “I came to—” his robe was half-open, hanging off of one pale, freckle-capped shoulder, “I thought you might make use of me.” I could not offer help, of course: to need help he must admit to being helpless, and Maedhros held himself above that. Turning slowly, he nodded once. I approached as I had approached many times before, glad to be permitted, his secret assistant. 

“You seemed to have grown weary ere you left the spring. I pray you not worry yourself over aught that you heard. Things will mend; already they are mending. For my part I am here even now to see to that, however I may.” The sudden strangeness of his look caused me to pause with my hands clutching his robe. “Will you sleep now?” Then he smiled, almost fey, a gleam in his eyes that regarded me keenly. 

“Yes, I wish it were morning again.” 

It seemed I was expected to comprehend some second meaning. It seemed he was working something out as he looked upon me. “Well, sleep long enough and you shall see the next one.” With a short laugh he tossed his head back, and waited (for what, I could not tell). But I removed his robe as a courtesy -forgetting he had done as much earlier without trouble- and set it aside. Returning with fresh linen, I found him sitting on the bed, fighting to unfasten his wet sling. He allowed me to do that in his stead, and sat quiet and pensive while kneeling I worked. As I tied the dry sling he came about, and bade me to remove it twice: too tight, then too loose. 

“Perfect,” he whispered into my ear. Finishing the knot I backed away, until his hand rested on mine. I paused, assuming he had some private thing to say. For the longest time he just looked at me, a deep and piercing stare. I could only wait, and wonder. “It feels good when you tend to me.” 

It was his turn to wait, as I decided on a reply. “That is no wonder. Only a fool could wield a sponge to ill effect, or spoon broth in a way leaving aught to be desired.” I tried to smile, to convince myself that there was nothing queer about him, or at least that I noticed it not... but those eyes! 

“I know you will not harm me; that is why I can bear for you to touch me, because I trust you.” 

There was by then a hint of desperation in his voice; abashed I realized that I had moved slightly away. I replaced our proximity immediately. “Of course!” His look was wanting, and I had a sudden fear that he suspected I would leave. Firmly as I dared, I embraced him, a gesture we must have shared a hundred times before, if never so carefully. “Be easy, cousin…” He was stiff before relaxing into me; I could not help but squeeze harder, satisfied when he fairly melted into my arms. It occurred to me that I missed him as his former self, I missed the way we used to be together: comfortable and familiar, without any shadow over unshared horrors. 

What sounded like a moan might have been a murmur. “Did you speak?” 

He hesitated. “No.” 

“You did. What did you say?” 

A tickle of uneven breath fell on my neck, maybe a silent laugh. “To not let go.” Before I could comment, he amended, “But never mind.” I arched to look at him, faced with an innocent smile that was anything else. “For if you do not release me, how will you massage my back?” 

Indeed it began with his back, rising by his request to his shoulder, then neck. “You have healed so well!” I was amazed at what brought him pleasure without pain, when not many days before he would hardly tolerate even movement. Around a groan of assent, he simply said ‘harder’. I obeyed. At length he sighed, long and sad, and for that reason alone did I stop, only to receive a sharp look over his shoulder. “I thought you were finished with me,” I explained. 

“I was going to ask you something.” It seemed I had to be rubbing him for the question, so I continued. After directing me to his bicep, then fingers, he said evenly, “When you pleasure yourself, Fingon, which hand do you use?” 

I laughed, reminded of our youth and the confessions we would share of pubescent passions, when our bodies were still new to us and the possibilities thereof seemingly endless. But the laughter died on my lips, and I felt the blood drain from my face. With shaking hands I strove and failed to continue my work. “Maedhros, I…” he waited for an answer, not for lame apologies. I could not pry my gaze away from his left -and only- hand. “My right one.” 

He gave a nod and sighed again. “Well, you have served me kindly, and I would ask no more of you. With my thanks,” here he made a small gesture to the door. So I was excused, if I would leave. 

I do not know how long we sat there, unmoving, silent. Eventually he maneuvered to lie down; out of habit I pulled away the covers, making a place for him. I did not need to see his member to know it was rigid, though see it I did, and aroused he was. There were no thoughts in my mind, as I settled myself down beside him. All I felt were emotions that had no names: it was not pity, nor guilt, nor love, nor obligation… or perhaps it was all that. For I did love him, as a cousin who had been like a brother to me, and a friend who had been loyal in the end. Though I was no guiltier than anyone else, that did not negate my natural sense of obligation to kin and ally. Even in his current state, Maedhros was a difficult person to pity; but it was my hand that took his, and I do not forget his pleads for death that I denied. 

Unsurprised, he watched my every move, guessed my every consideration, and when our eyes next met they locked. Minutes later we nodded in a mutual understanding yet left unspoken. His manner changed as did mine: our intentions were then clear. I did not lie close enough at first, and he beckoned me closer. Next I was too straight, and he kicked my legs apart, wedging one of his between mine. As I got comfortable he fiddled nonchalantly with the thong of my shirt. His right arm slept motionless between us, ignored by him, avoided by me: I worried about paining him, feared to do something objectionable. No concerns seemed to affect him. He mouthed the word ‘off’, tugging at my shirt. How could be command me with his eyes whilst his mouth curved pleadingly? Well, that is just Maedhros: he can do anything. I obeyed. 

Propped on my left elbow, I looked down upon him, steeling myself. That steady gaze had not left me: approvingly it roamed my bare torso and abdomen, and there was something new in his countenance: gratitude. And his own body… what trials it had borne! Yet there was no shame, only an unbreakable will under amber-speckled flesh. Quite simply, I wanted naught else but to do right by him, laws and customs be damned. Did he not deserve release without awkwardness, comfort without scorn? And what is the difference, in the end, if he struggles alone or if I help him in this small way? We cannot be cursed worse... or so I hope. 

“What do you see, Fingon, that so captures your attention?” 

Ah, and he would like to know. From behind a canvas, chalk in hand, I had learned centuries ago of Maedhros’ pleasure in being watched. My portraits were one of the few things he would tolerate sitting still for, and request no favor in return. It was innocent fun that sometimes if I looked closely or in a certain way he might lose his modesty. We would always just laugh. “I see endurance, splendid and terrible – and a dear friend.” With my hand I followed the design of freckles up his forearm to shoulder, though my eyes marked the lower patterns. “These are new, and unrecorded. Will you let me draw you again?” 

His inclined his head: a challenge, though in play. “That depends.” 

Always so charming; to me, at least. “How is it with you then? How shall I start?” 

“Slowly,” came the reply, as if savoring the word – or my reaction. 

He was toying with me, as he had ever been fond of doing. “Yes, but where?” 

“At the top,” he intoned, a wry grin betraying his demure facade. He laughed as I dove my fingers through his hair: not the same top that he meant, of course. Such was the routine of our banter that I would find a way around his taunts without losing at the game. My reservations slipped away as we fell into our old conduct, and the strangeness of my task was less daunting. 

As he responded to my exploring touch, shuddering and arching like a leaf in the wind, I suspected initially that he was still teasing me. Could it feel so good that I would trail my hand down his neck, trace the line of his collarbone, mark the curve of his ear? His eyes told me ‘yes’, and I understood: compared to all he had felt in the years before, it could certainly feel that good. Knowing his pleasure, I was doubly encouraged, and determined. 

His breathing became irregular before I had even passed his waist, and with closed eyes he was immersed in the sensation of touch alone. I found that light touches in unexpected places brought forth sharp gasps, and predictable strokes in obvious areas made him groan. Therefore I found that I could create music: caressing the line of his jaw followed by tweaking a nipple made a passionate sound; rubbing my hand along his flank before grasping his balls earned a guttural noise. I had not intended to do anything that he could not conceivably do himself… but regardless, tasting his ear while drawing on his shaft elicited quite an effect. And though naught should be for my benefit, I yearned to hear that sound again, and again. 

“Do you sing for me?” I asked, smiling as he flinched at my breath against him, bringing him back from wherever he had flown off to. But if he meant to answer it was incoherent. I ceased nibbling on his neck, if he would speak, yet there was no change. By the increasing arch of his back and the tenseness of his muscles I knew that he was near his end, but I would fain see him teeter on the very edge. “For this dance we need a faster song, I think.” 

He had not spoken before that point. What he said then, amidst my discovery (and exploitation) of his preferred rhythm and pressure, I will never forget. Breathless, he fairly glowed under a sheen of sweat, alternatively trembling and buckling as my fist urged him on, the face I know so well blissful and sincere as he cried out, “Thank you!” His voice diminished to a whisper, and though gasping as he spent, he repeated, “Ai, Fingon, thank you...!” 

Now as I watch he sleeps, only waking to writhe and chuckle under my ministrations when I cleansed his cooling flesh. A smile of joy still lingers upon his lips – a smile I share, though mine is no doubt tinged with smugness. Mighty Maedhros, reduced to whimpers and surrender by only my hand and a few tempting words. 

It is one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen. For what is more courageous than trust?


	2. Autumn

From a hillock we looked out over the field below, where the horses I brought grazed after the morning’s ride, familiarizing themselves with the new acreage and their new companions. Glittering beyond was Lake Mithrim, which still divided his people from mine, though it seemed a less forbidding barrier day by day – owed in most part to my efforts, without many thanks in return. 

Two gifts I came bearing: to humble myself before Fingolfin the High King (as I should grow accustomed to regarding him), and to offer horses as wergeld. Mere infant steps towards reconciliation twixt our people, not like the galloping strides that brought me here. We could learn much from our four-legged friends, I deem. For they fret not moving from one camp to another, that they drink now from the other side of the lake, or that some of them hail from one house and some from another. In peace they eat and play and choose mates to beget mingled foals – and when time for war comes, they will not paw lines in the dirt and stand upon either side, leaving their children in the middle. What have we come to, that I would look with envy upon the politics of a horse? 

Beside me, Fingon stood untroubled. “So, is my gift well-received?” I asked. 

Glancing sidelong at me, maybe he wondered how much praise I expected. “Of course. I already said as much, as did my father.” 

Proud Turgon had not: he said it was the least I could do. Well, it was not our fault that few of their horses survived the crossing of the Helcaraxe. If we had been foolish enough to attempt crossing the Grinding Ice, our horses would have perished just the same. But yes, it is the least of which I should -and shall- do for Indis’ sons. “I notice none begged leave to accompany us, when I asked for a tour of your camp.” 

Fingon did not grasp my meaning, and sighed. “Have patience, give them time.” 

For what I next planned to say, I did not wish to be standing at the highest point of the plain. Fingon followed as I descended the knoll until the camp was out of sight – and us hidden from any curious onlookers. Still oblivious to my purpose, he would have walked on had I not halted him by the arm. “Ask me to forget, and I will never speak of it.” 

Behind that furrowed brow I sensed his mind stumble over in confusion. “Nay, I ask that nothing be forgotten. But of what do you speak?” 

“Of a day last spring, when I woke to find you gone.” There was only one such day, and despite my words it would never be forgotten, if left unspoken of.

He began to eye the area, then recalled what our exchange of not a moment ago had disclosed: we came alone, for none cared to accompany me. If this was as desirable to him as it was to me it did not show upon his face. “I explained that – my father sent for me.” 

“Yet we never spoke of it. So I wondered.” 

Straightening, a stubborn look came about him, as I expected it would. “Well, I did not say on a whim that I do not ask you to forget.” 

“Then remember that day, and answer me one thing...” he nodded for me to continue. “What meant it to you?” I watched as his resolve exhausted itself from the inside out, and he sighed until slumped in the shoulders. Finally he shrugged, and spoke without the formality of before. 

“Ah, Maedhros... it was what it was. What means shared laughter, returned smiles, feasting together, or friends gathered to sing under the stars? ‘Tis just the stuff of living, of togetherness and love.” He looked askance at me, anticipating a negative reaction to his direction that I did not have. Little did he know that no amount of moral blasphemy he was capable of conceiving could unnerve me at this point in my life. Comforted, he spoke on. 

“Now our...” despite himself a blush rose to his ears as he searched for a word, “encounter was unique; but I see no wrong in it, if that is your qualm, and nor do I regret. On the contrary – more and more do I question the things taught to me in my youth. How much of such lessons derived from our own wisdom, I wonder, and how much from the prodding of the Valar? Should we not judge what is best for ourselves in such matters, and as each circumstance warrants? I was not encouraged to learn from experience and grow after such knowledge; I quite plainly was told how it would be. Even now, adult and accomplished, they call me valiant – not wise, not deeper-seeing than some come and gone before me, just valiant.”

After a moment of silent introspection, his gaze found mine again. He quirked a smile half in apology for becoming so immersed in his own opinions, but I was more pleased than he could guess. Fingon at his most rebellious: helping a friend in need by unprecedented means. How scandalous, only not. “That is all I asked,” I said, carefully unconcerned. 

“But what of yourself?” he tried to prompt me. I only shrugged, frustrating him perfectly, and ignored the question. 

“You know, I suppose it is just as well that we are alone.” 

Now his look was tired. “Because of your dull mood? I agree.” 

“Because of your colorful smell. I had forgotten how their odor clings to you.” He followed my gesture towards the horses, and frowned.

“You are no spring flower yourself, cousin, though in good manners I had not mentioned it.” With all the forbearance of a close friend, I rewarded his insolence with a shove. Stumbling a bit in recovery, he warned, “Do that not again.” Then in demonstration of his self-professed politeness, he shoved me in turn. 

“Then do not make yourself deserve it,” I told him with another push. 

Vengeful, he came at me swift and hard; but I was ready, and withstood him. For a moment we grappled standing, then Fingon did something unexpected. Being shorter and slighter than me did not make him weaker or disadvantaged, and he was craftier. I felt only a heel behind my knee before his weight bore me down. My first reaction was to laugh, but tall as I am and falling on sloped ground... it was a long way down. I cried out, losing my breath as he landed on me. 

Wearing a devious smile Fingon looked down his nose at me, his right hand pinning my left, seemingly oblivious to the rock under my back and my resultant wince of pain – or else enjoying it far more than I. “Do you yield?” 

It was that or suffer unending smugness should he attain victory of a rematch. I groaned, “Aye.” 

His face fell concerned. “Are you well?” 

Seeing his alarm, I was helpless: it was far too easy tormenting him sometimes. I shifted slowly, grimacing. “I-I... fear that—” only by some miracle did I keep from laughing out at his stricken look. “Yes, ah, I broke... I broke a smile.” 

“Maedhros!” By his own laughter I was kept safe, for he was unable to attack amid such mirth. “You knave – I feared you injured!” 

“Indeed you injured my pride... but I forgive you.” As usual, his good cheer was contagious, and I found myself joined in his laughter for a time. 

I do not know which of us quieted first; who noticed our proximity as we lay there on the ground near enough to taste each other’s breath; which of us shifted to separate or how that courtesy only brought us closer. Well, there was a rock biting into my back – I had one solid, sharp reason to arch a bit. Fingon, however, had only one reason to press against me: the same reason he had not gotten off of me. 

“You are stiff as a tree,” he said, obviously proud of his own jest. “Why so tense?” 

“You are heavy as a tree – why so lazy?” I could not retain my grin any better than he could. 

“Ah, Maedhros...” his hair tickled my face as he shook his head, and his wistful laughter ticked my ears. “What are we to be acting like this, children again?” 

Children who through friendship shared a few secret vices in youth; whose love of novelty and exploration was nearly as great as their love for their fathers. Children who were neither very young nor innocent at their most creative, and who were never in fact caught amid any naughty act, though their actions be at times naughtier than others. No, we were not children anymore. Yet the memories shone in his eyes... or was it a reflection of mine? 

“Fingon, Fingon,” leaning up as I could, I stretched my neck to reach an ear, his heart hammering against me, “you know, ‘tis things like this that will get you exiled.” 

Our eyes met only briefly as I lowered, but he did not need to see me to find my mouth – which he did, seeking my tongue in turn. So deeply he kissed me that I forgot my own flavor; but it was over so soon and completely that it might as well not have happened, like a meal half-eaten that arouses hunger without satisfaction, leaving desire to starve unquenched. It is worse than pure emptiness, this near-fullness. 

In a wily way entirely my own, he asked, “And things like that?” 

“Will get me exiled.” The jest was terribly irrelevant, of course, perhaps unwelcomely ironic: we were already exiled, and it was not funny. As I sat up he slid aside, confusion and apology emanating from him so potent that I fought the urge to rub it off my person.

“Wait... you’re leaving? I—” 

Before he could begin rationalizing himself I grasped his shoulder, leaning to again speak into his ear. “Where I will go I do not know, but maybe there beside a creek or under a tree fighting autumn’s reign I shall meet you. Follow not unless to finish this, somehow.” 

I was already some feet away when he replied, “Maybe.” 

Guilt has me now as I walk, every step more uncertain than the last. A thrall to my memories and the prolonged life forced upon me, I can want nothing less than as much pleasure as possible, and I can see no wrong in aught but the most unforgivable crimes. The taste of Fingon’s lips does not weigh much at all measured against blood and tears and corpses. But I am biased, and more often than not lately a stranger to even myself. I leave it in his hands, to decide for us how this shall end. Seems everything is out of my hands, these days. 

*******

It was past noon when I found him, reclined against a tree still clinging to its yellowed leaves, beside a creek running thin after a season of sun and heat. He appeared as autumn himself, red hair the color of rust, skin pale as winter’s first frost under amber freckles scattered like leaves by the wind. But his eyes were warm, and still bright despite it all. Perhaps no amount of cold or torment could temper the inner fire of a son of Feanor. For my part I was chilled, and went to sit beside him.

There we remained, for a moment or an hour, silent and content. A slight shift of both our positions made all the difference, changing our proximity from one of brotherly companionship to that of would-be lovers; innocence to intimacy (and right to wrong, according to most). 

In my mind, my father lectured me about customs and correctness; that feeding desires of the body alone left your heart to starve. In my arms, Maedhros was strange and yet not so; strong again as in happier times, but hardened like never before. I was grown hard also, unlike the bliss of Valinor, hard as ice. 

I let him have the mastery of me, let him bear me down upon the woodland floor and keep me there. It would not be like before, that was obvious at once. Though his arm still hung useless in its sling, his left hand had since learned every former skill of the other. And he was hale again, thriving muscles like roots of steel under my fingers, against my body. There was no excuse I could sell myself this time, for he did not need my help to relieve himself anymore... or did he? What kind of hunger drew his mouth to mine? Was it the same as that which compelled me to press our groins together from beneath? 

No stranger am I to desires of the heart; I had nearly frozen to death in attaining them – freedom, control, power. Now I should be enjoying those desires fulfilled; but my heart forbids it, telling me the price was too high, that I am a traitor to myself, only familiar with the discontent and wrongness that led me here. Here in Middle-earth, in Maedhros’ embrace, and a place within myself where I am too hungry to forage the proper thing to eat. I am lost, and so is he. But we are lost together, and he tastes so good. 

One of us should do the honorable thing, before one of us takes off someone’s clothes; ere there is no going back, no justification. I could still kneel before the High King and admit my last trespass into sin, explaining that handling poor Maedhros was not an exercise of bodily lust, but a grueling labor from my heart to help a friend in need. Because Fingolfin trusts me he would believe me; because my father loves me he would excuse me. Yet there is no explanation for this. When next my father-king looks into my eyes, my mind might be revealed to him in full, and I do not know what his judgment would be. But I am valiant, brave and daring, and in this moment I am willing to risk it all. And Maedhros, perhaps, has little left to lose.

“Release me, warm me.” His hand goes to my belt, leaving me smothered under his unsupported weight as he frees my arched, aching penis. But his mouth on my neck gives me other ideas. Unappreciative eyes glare up me as I tilt his head by the hair, and his thumb presses painfully against my exposed scrotum, the message clear: hurt him and he will hurt me back. But I knew that already. “Thaw me, swallow me.” 

My crude demand receives a surprised look of commendation, then he flashes a sly smile and descends. Something new discovered, for I have never previously been so pleasured. Neither has he any practice in the art, though possessing the same parts as I he knows perfectly well what would feel good, unbelievably good. So good I forget where I am or indeed who I am, except a body lying weightless on the ground whose sex is willing victim to a warm mouth devouring every sensitive inch with delicious care. 

I cry out for more, more pleasure, even unending pleasure if I could have my way. He takes that to mean faster, so I experience some of that newness as well, the friction sparking a flame of sensation within me that grows higher and harsher. Compared to that thrill the snow-light brush of his hair against my thighs is utter madness, taunting me that no such simple pleasure can compare hereafter to the ecstasy of questing tongue and slick moisture and hot pressure upon the very core of my masculinity. 

By my second outburst of unintelligible direction he hardens his hold, repeatedly drawing the length of me in so far and tight and fast that I am plunged into that inferno of sensation, and burning within I melt, and he does swallow, my flesh and my heat, until I lie undone beneath him, senseless and spent. 

Time passes as it is wont to do, and when I can think again one thing only I can think to say: “What meant it to you?” 

His answer is unconcerned, but not uncaring, and I realize that there is a world of difference. “Everything that it was.” 

And everything that it was not. I am satisfied in flesh, at least. My heart is elsewhere for the nonce regardless, and if it starves I know it not. “Come, Maedhros, and lie at ease so I can get to you. This is something we both deserve.” 

_~`end`~_   
  


**Footnotes:**  
~In the Silmarillion, Fingon is Gil-galad’s father – in HOME, Fingon is unwed. For the purposes of this story, I propose Fingon’s unwed incarnation.   
~For the sake of reader-friendliness, I used the names seen throughout the Silmarillion (even though at this point in time, Thingol had not yet banned Quenya, and I assume only following that ban did the Noldor adopt Sindarin names).  
~Some elements of this fic (e.g. Maedhros’ freckles) are borrowed with permission from another (www.henneth-annun.net/stories/chapter.cfm?STID=1995).  
~Big thanks to beta reader Lily Anguir. 


End file.
